Just In Case
by snoreasaurus
Summary: "It was her first autumn in the classroom on her own, and although she'd done well thus far and was living up to every expectation that had been made of her, she was still just twenty-two years of age and nervous as all hell about the impact she was having on these children's lives." AU - Beth is a young third grade teacher concerned about one of her students: Merle Dixon Jr.
1. Chapter 1

My first attempt at fanfiction! Bethyl AU. I don't know if this is good, so you should definitely let me know if you like it! I'll probably continue it, should be fun :) Thank-you!

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Parent-teacher conferences were certain to be a struggle for Beth Greene.

It was her first autumn in the classroom on her own, and although she'd done well thus far and was living up to every expectation that had been made of her, she was still just twenty-two years of age and nervous as all hell about the impact she was having on these children's lives. She'd loved children for as long as she could remember—ever since she'd grown too old to be considered a child herself she'd worked in her church's nursery, spending her afternoons cooing softly at babies, changing diapers, elbow-deep in baby formula and swaddling blankets. It had never been a question for her, what she wanted to do—she'd wanted to teach. Elementary education. Knowing from a young age what she'd wanted to do made figuring out just how to do it all the more simple—the sort of bull-headed single-minded determination she shared with her sister and had inherited from their father made achieving those accomplishments a simple matter of when and never, ever a matter of 'if'.

But even after graduating high school at seventeen—a year early—and graduating from her five-year accelerated Masters program in early childhood education magna cum laude, Miss Beth (as she insisted her third graders call her) still felt overwhelmingly intimidated by the idea of sitting down with her students' parents—her at her big desk at the front of the room, and them in the two largest child-sized chairs she'd managed to find—and spoke with them about their child's progress (or lack thereof) in school.

There were a couple of students in particular that she worried about—ones that had been failing to hand in homework, or were falling behind in their math. And there was one boy in particular—eight year old Merle Dixon Jr, who insisted she just call him 'Junior'—who seemed to come to school hungry more often than he didn't, and who'd fallen so far behind the other children in his reading skills that Beth was worried she'd have to recommend he be held back to repeat the year.

And she was certainly afraid of ending today feeling like she might eventually need to call Child Protection Services on the Dixon family. Beth had never seen true child abuse, and the idea of it existing in her own classroom, right under her nose, made her stomach churn uncomfortably.

Adjusting the brightly colored folders and binder clips that covered her desk, Beth seated herself and waiting for the first parents of the day—she'd already met the Grimes family at the August open house. Their daughter Judith had been a pleasure thus far, and Beth had a nice orange folder filled with beautiful drawings and completed worksheets to give to Rick and Lori.

After her quick chitchat with the Grimes duo, the day seemed to pass excruciatingly slowly—a couple of the parents didn't bother showing up, which hardly surprised Beth, and a few seemed annoyed and being told anything about their child by someone who was barely legal to drink. Most were pleasant enough, if a bit disinterested and unengaged—their child's education was Beth's responsibility, not their own. Soon enough, though, noon rolled around and Beth prepared herself for the last meeting she'd scheduled for the day—the Dixons. She steeled herself for their arrival and for the possibility of them not showing up at all. Truly, she wasn't certain which outcome made her feel more anxious.

At 12:10, she sighed and opened the lunch her mother had packed for her, unable to keep from giggling at the absurdity of the fact that her mother still packed her a lunch nearly every day. It was a fortunate consequence of continuing to live on her father's farm.

She'd just taken a bite out of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich when a man wearing a leather vest and a scowl wandered into her classroom.

Beth blinked at the strange man slowly, slowly comprehending the absurdity of the man—whose hands were black with grease and who looked like he belonged on the back of a Harley chewing tobacco and spitting on the side of the road. He looked remarkably out of place amidst the bright pastels of her classroom—a cartoon duck she'd plastered to the wall beside the door absolutely looked as if it did not belong in the same universe as this man. Beth swallowed and rose to her feet nervously.

"Mr. Dixon? I'm Beth Greene." She asked, extended a hand in greeting. He appraised her, somewhat suspiciously, making his way to the front of the classroom, hanging back for a moment before reaching forward to grip her hand. He shook once, firmly, and then dropped it wordlessly. Beth hesitated before gesturing to the chairs in front of her desk, "Please, sit." She said, seating herself and moving her lunch to the side, picking Junior's folder up from where she'd left it.

He sat, still wordless, arms folded across his chest. She stared at him, stomach turning, trying to think of where to start. The other parents had all been eager to introduce themselves, to talk about their children, the weather, the local high school baseball team—_anything_. She fidgeted uncomfortably. He shifted in his seat, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled and dirty half piece of paper, throwing it down on her desk. Beth recognized it instantly as the announcement she'd sent home with each child about the upcoming parent-teacher conferences, each with a handwritten time on it.

"Kid had this." The man said gruffly, refolding his arms over his chest, glaring at her, "Figured I oughta come."

Beth picked up the announcement, nervously smoothing it out on the desk top, "Yes, Mr. Dixon, I'm really glad you came. Your son is…he's a real sweetheart and I love having him in class—"

"Not his dad." The man corrected, interrupting her, eyes narrowed, "I'm his uncle."

Beth was a little taken aback—as far as she knew Junior was in the care of his parents, although she had to admit she had no reason to think she was privy to the intimate details of her students' family lives. She paused, then asked, "But you're Junior's legal guardian?"

The man tensed slightly, eyes narrowing further, "I reckon I ain't. Kid lives with his pa…and his ma, when she bothers showin' her ugly mug."

"Was his father unable to make it today?"

The man barked a loud, harsh laugh, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees, running dirty fingers through dirty hair, "No, I don't reckon he could. Merle ain't exactly the type to drive on down to the schoolyard to have words with some teacher lady." He sat back in his seat, hands clasped loosely over his crotch, "No offense intended to ya."

Beth swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, but grateful for the glimpse into what she now felt for certain was a very dysfunctional family life. She opened Junior's folder.

"Well I'm glad you were able to make it Mr. Dixon." She replied, voice smooth as honey. Beth had a great voice for teaching children and for dealing with erratic adults—soft, soothing. Her gentle disposition and generally pleasant demeanor were simply icing on the cake. The man shifted again.

"Name's Daryl."

Beth glanced up at him, and smiled softly, now seeing clearly his nervousness and discomfort. Were she to hazard a guess, she'd put him at thirty or so years of age—no older than thirty-five for certain.

"Alright Daryl, I am _very_ glad you were able to make it today. As I was saying, Junior is an absolutely joy to have in class. He's very sweet, and usually gets along well with the other children, I'm just a little concerned about his development." She pulled out three of the most recent math worksheets the children had completed, handing them to Daryl. He took them, staring at them as if he had no idea what their purpose was, or what they meant.

"We're getting into multiplication tables now, and he's fallen really far behind. I've noticed he hasn't done any of his homework, and if he doesn't catch up, he may have to repeat the third grade. Do you know what the nightly routine at his parents' house is?"

Daryl looked up at her, eyebrows furrowed, "'Nightly routine'?" He repeated, as if he'd never heard of such a thing before. It was Beth's turn to shift uncomfortably in her seat.

"Do you know if he goes to after school care? Do his parents help him with his homework? Does he have a baby-sitter? How involved would you say his parents are in his schoolwork?"

Daryl snorted, throwing the worksheets down on her desk, "Kid comes to school to learn, he ain't getting none of that at home."

Beth wasn't surprised, though she was frustrated by his attitude, "I really can't insist enough on how important it is that he practice the skills he learns here while he's at home." She said, voice deliberately even, "I have thirty students in my class, I just don't have the resources to give them all the individual attention they need."

He had a mean look in his eye, "Ain't that your job?" It wasn't really a question, and Beth pursed her lips, disinclined to answer it. Of course it was her job, but her job had become hell and a half with the budget cuts the district had foisted upon them—thirty students in a third grade classroom with just one teacher was ridiculous.

Beth doubted, however, that Daryl Dixon was looking to hear her lay out the complexities of the educational bureaucracy in the United States. And he wasn't waiting for her to say anything either—he was too busy working himself into some odd sort of righteous rage.

"I ain't his teacher, his momma ain't his teacher, and his daddy sure as shit ain't his teacher, so I don't know why in the hell you're thinking we oughta do your job for you." He folded his arms again, scowling. Beth noticed herself noticing the way his bare skin stretched over the muscles of his upper arms, and pushed the thought away, blushing. If there was ever a moment when it would have been more inappropriate to notice such things than in a parent-teacher conference, she would have had a hard time imagining what it was.

She licked her lips, choosing her next words carefully. Adults and children weren't so different—a situation could typically be diffused with a few calm words.

"If his parents," She paused, shuffling papers and glancing up at Daryl before looking back down and adding, "Or yourself don't have the time or resources to help him with his school work, we do have an after-school care program here. It's free for children from…" She thought for a moment, "Underprivileged households, so we'd need to have his parents fill out a few forms. He wouldn't be able to ride the bus home anymore, but many of the parents carpool, and the teachers who run the program—myself included—are usually more than happy to drive students home when their parents can't get them."

Daryl huffed, "So you're sayin' he needs to go to school, _after_ school, and that's the only way to get all the right learning done?" He stood, bracing himself on her desk and leaning towards her. Instinctively, Beth leaned back, although he didn't look quite so menacing as he had moments earlier. He seemed genuinely baffled, "What do y'all _do_ with them all damn day if they ain't learning what they need to?"

Beth sighed, thumbing through Junior's folder, suddenly remembering something specific, "Trust me, Mr. Dixo—Daryl, I would love to tell you just what it is that we do, and exactly why it isn't necessarily working, but that's a rather long, _unhappy_ conversation. Maybe over drinks sometime, lord knows it ain't a conversation I like having sober."

Beth usually wasn't the type to speak without carefully considering her words, but that last sentence had slipped out before she'd even registered what she was about to say. Her head snapped up, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights, turning red.

"I apologize Mr. Dixon, that was incredibly inappropriate of me to say." She could only imagine the reprimanding she'd receive if he were to complain—not that she thought he would. She probably could have cursed at him and it would have rolled right off him. Men like him were tougher than all that. He smiled at her, a lopsided sort of grin, falling back to sit in the chair, arms crossed once more.

"Really now? 'Cause that's the sort of offer I reckon I'd be inclined to take you up on."

She blushed again, eyes back on the papers she'd been shuffling through, finally finding the one she'd been looking for, and grinning widely at it. It was a crayon drawing of what she had assumed at the time was a made-up character. She pulled it out and stretched across her desk to hand it to him, unable to control her wild smile. The scribbled man in the picture wore all black, and had shaggy brown hair—his bare arms bulged with cartoonishly large biceps and he was holding an odd object that Beth had recognized from a childhood spent amongst hunters.

"Tell me Daryl, am I correct in assuming you're a man who knows how to use a crossbow?"

Daryl Dixon had spent far too much of his life meddling in the affairs of his older brother. He'd let Merle get him into trouble far too many times, and he'd wasted too much time and energy getting Merle _out_ of trouble. A small fortune had been wasted by Daryl bailing the older Dixon out of jail, or paying legal fees, or paying _back_ payday loans, or paying _off_ agitated drug dealers. Though he was ten years younger, Daryl felt he'd spent much of his adult life cleaning up Merle's messes.

The biggest one, of course, being the kid.

Daryl loved Junior, but Daryl also knew that Merle had no business whatsoever raising a child, and so when the kid's mom (some unfortunate junkie kid who'd barley been legal when she'd shacked up with Merle) had gotten herself knocked up, Daryl had been rather, well, vocal about what he thought ought to be done about the situation.

That is, that they all ought to take a nice family vacation to the local planned parenthood and exercise their constitutional right to_ nip that shit in the bud_.

Merle had been his ass six ways from Wednesday for saying so, and that had been the end of it.

Daryl knew Merle had no business being a father, but that wasn't the kid's fault.

He'd always done what he could for Junior, but working two jobs steady with odd hours, as well as whatever oddball work got thrown his way meant he was rarely around. He didn't live with Merle and Junior's mother—Patsy—anymore anyway, though he dropped by whenever he could to make sure the kid was alright, make sure Merle wasn't using in front of him, that sort of thing.

It had been on one of those visits that Junior had given him the flier about the parent-teacher conferences, confiding in Daryl that he didn't want his mother or father to go, whispering that he didn't think 'Miss Beth' would like his pa very much. Daryl had ruffled the kid's hair, though he hadn't planned on going himself. It was usually just better to let things like that fall by the wayside.

The way he saw it, there probably wasn't nothing good that could come of him setting foot in that school building.

But he'd come anyway, and once the teacher—blonde girl, younger than he'd expected—handed him that picture, he was right glad he had.

Daryl smiled stupidly to himself, ducking his head forward so that his hair—dirty, greasy, and in need of a trim—hid his eyes, which he was ashamed to find were prickling uncomfortably with what may or may not have been tears. He wouldn't cry, but the possibility existed. He stared at the drawing for another moment before looking back up at the teacher, who was smiling like she was proud of herself for something. He coughed.

"I'd say the kid's a damned good artist." He said. She laughed—a soft, musical sound that made Daryl feel a certain sort of way that he couldn't quite define and therefore ignored.

"I agree he is _quite_ talented, though I think he gets embarrassed, doesn't want to show me his drawings most of the time." She was blushing a bit again, and Daryl wondered whether or not she spent all her days blushing at every little thing, and pulled out another drawing, handing it to him.

This one was a bit less endearing, although Daryl couldn't help but laugh loudly. In his hands was an eight year old's rendering of what was very obviously a naked woman. Daryl ran his hands through his hair and shook his head, throwing the drawing down on the desk.

"Well, he's Merle's kid, that's for sure." Daryl sighed, finding himself unembarrassed. Kids would be kids, and God knew there were enough nudey magazines floating around Merle's house to keep the kid occupied.

"Well," Beth pursed her lips, but Daryl could tell she was holding back laughter—could see it in her eyes, "I've been trying to impress upon him that he'll have to wait until he's a bit older to start in on _that_ sort of art. College, I'd think, but I'm no expert." She sighed, closing the folder and clasping her hands together atop it, "Do you think his parents would be inclined to enroll him in our after school program?"

Daryl was nodding before he'd really even thought about it—truthfully he knew Merle wouldn't hardly notice that the kid was gone longer than usual, and Patsy would be all-to-eager to expand upon the amount of time she had to shirk her parental duties, "I'd say so, yeah."

"Wonderful." Beth stood, gesturing for him to do the same, smiling, "Let's get you those forms, we'll have to go by the front office."

He nodded, and let her lead the way, hands deep in his pockets. As he followed her through the halls, Daryl couldn't help but enjoy the sight of her—she was all energy, with a swinging ponytail and a bounce in her step. And an ass to boot, though he was trying not to think too much about that.

"Thank-you for coming today." She emphasized as she handed him the forms, smiling, "I do really appreciate the effort. I care a lot about Junior; he's a good kid. If you need anything, or if his parents have any questions about these forms," She was ripping a piece of paper off of a pad at the front desk, much to the annoyance of the secretary there, who had been giving Daryl dirty looks since he'd walked in. She pulled a pencil out from where it had been tucked into her ponytail and hastily scribbled seven digits onto the paper, handing it to him, "This is my cell phone number. Obviously I don't answer during school hours, but otherwise I'm pretty reliable." She smiled again, brightly, and squeezed his hand, "I think the after school program will be really good for him."

Daryl nodded, and said a gruff good-bye. He left the school, climbing into his truck and throwing the papers into the passenger seat, dragging his fingers through his hair once more. He started the car, and then glanced towards the papers again—the phone number sat on top. He paused, considering, then sighed. Fishing his own phone—a dinosaur of sorts—out of his pocket, he snatched the paper up and quickly dialed the number in. He hesitated only briefly before hitting save, then throwing both the phone and the paper with her number written on it back onto the passenger seat.

_Just in case._ Daryl though to himself, turning on the radio and pulling out of the parking lot.

In case of what, he wasn't sure.

He drove home, humming to himself and thinking of big blue eyes and long, blonde ponytails.


	2. Chapter 2

I gotta say, I was so stoked to see all those positive reviews! Like I said, I've never really written fanfiction before (usually I just write boring research papers lol) so that was definitely a huge confidence boost for me! Thank-you so much!

I've been devouring Bethyl fics recently (haven't we all!) and I'm really stoked to be diving into one of my own. I have a general idea of where this story will go, and I'm super excited to share it with everyone.

Thanks!

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"Merle!"

Daryl pushed his way into his childhood home without knocking, letting the screen door bang shut behind him. In the dim living room an old TV set flickered, illuminating Junior's face as he sat on the rug in front of it, entranced by whatever old black and white movie his mother had chosen to pass out to. The Dixon house barely had electricity, let alone cable—a pile of old VHS tapes littered the floor. The technology was old, but you could buy scores of the tapes at a thrift store for less than a buck.

It was easier on the wallet than dropping twenty bucks on a DVD, that was certain.

"Hey little man." Daryl walked behind the kid, ruffling his hair. Junior flinched away, but not in the afraid way that Daryl had always shied away from touch as a child—Junior flinched like he was embarrassed, not like he feared a beating.

Merle was many things, few of them good, but Daryl found himself constantly relieved that his older brother hadn't turned into a woman or child beater, like their father.

"Hi Uncle Daryl!" Junior piped up, "How are you today?" Until today, Daryl had been scratching his head wondering where the kid had been learning his manners. After meeting the teacher though, he figured he had a pretty good idea. He could just imagine blondie, with her singsong voice, insisting on 'pleases' and thank-yous' and 'yes ma'ams' from her kids. For some reason, the thought made him smile. Daryl crouched down on the rug beside Junior.

"I'm alright, little man. Where's your pa?"

Junior shrugged, making the same sort of noncommittal 'iunno' sound that Daryl himself was famous for using when he had a bit of an idea what the truth was, but wasn't eager to share it. Daryl sighed—he could figure what that meant. Merle was probably passed out in the bed room. By the looks of Patsy—dead to the world on the couch—the couple had been using.

Daryl just hoped they'd at least had the decency not to do it in front of the kid.

"Met your teacher today." Daryl told him, leaning back to sit on the floor beside Junior. He wasn't looking at him, but he could _feel_ Junior perked up at mention of Miss Beth. Daryl had always been very aware of the people around him—he wasn't sure if it came from a lifetime of hunting or a lifetime of never knowing who was going to hit him next, but he could read people well. He'd always known Junior loved school, and he now knew exactly why.

Couldn't blame the kid, he'd probably have had a crush on his third grade teacher too, if she'd been a sweet young scrap of a thing and not some wrinkled old crone.

"She seemed nice enough." Daryl continued, glancing at Junior before looking back at the television screen, wondering how many hours a day the kid spent watching old movies. The tube had been Daryl's baby-sitter as a child, and it had been Junior's too.

Wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but Daryl hadn't managed to graduate high school—he was hoping Junior would do a bit better than that. He sighed, running his fingers through his hair once more.

"How you feel about stayin' later at school most days?" He asked, figuring it should be Junior's decision, more than anyone else's, what happened to him, "Your teacher seemed to think it'd be good for ya, stay a couple extra hours with her and some other kids." He paused, almost not believing what he was about to say—he himself had never done homework as a child, "Get your homework done, she says you ain't been doin' it."

Junior looked at him guiltily, shifting, "It ain't that I ain't _wanna_." He whined, clearly feeling he was about to be in trouble, "I just ain't know _how_ and we ain't got pencils nowhere anyways!"

Daryl couldn't argue with that logic. He never would have claimed that Merle's home was a good place to do homework.

"Well, you think you'd wanna stay after school with Miss Beth?" He asked, and Junior beamed at him.

"Well yeah!" He said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Daryl nodded and ruffled the kid's hair again, standing.

"I gotta talk to your pa then. Holler if she wakes up." Daryl jerked his head towards Patsy, asleep on the couch, and Junior nodded.

As much as Daryl wanted to hate Patsy for the piss poor mother she'd been to the boy, he could bring himself to feel anything but sorry for her. She had been just nineteen when Junior had been born—an embarrassing twenty years younger than Merle. She'd aged well beyond her years in the eight years since. Some of that was the stress, a lot of it was the drugs, and at least a fraction was because of Merle.

Besides all that, she'd never beaten the kid, and she was rarely so strung out that she forgot he existed at all. In that regards, she was a bit better than Daryl's own mother.

"Wake up, asshole." Daryl grunted, gripping his brother's shirt collar and hauling Merle into a sitting position on the bare mattress he'd been laying on. Merle blinked, dazed.

"Whazzat?" He voice was thick with phlegm and Daryl looked around the room, taking in the small collection of used needles, inappropriately-used belts, pipes, and bongs, sighing. He pulled the folded wad of papers out of the pocket of his vest.

"I went by the school today." Merle gave him a bewildered look and Daryl grew frustrated, "Your damn _kid's_ school, dick-face. Met his teacher," He unfolded the papers, pulling apart the two that had a space for parent signatures. He couldn't legally sign the papers, but he'd fill them out.

Though, if Merle couldn't manage to sign them, he'd just forge the signature. He didn't really care. It was always best to not commit a crime when you didn't need to, though.

Daryl had always believe that. Merle hadn't.

There was a reason the older brother had been to prison and Daryl never had.

Merle blinked at Daryl again, "What for?"

"Parent-teacher conference." Daryl responded, starkly aware of how ridiculous that phrase must sound to Merle. Hell, it sounded ridiculous to himself, hearing it said aloud. Parent-teacher conferences were things suburban yuppies with minivans went to. They weren't the sort of thing backwoods redneck cunts like himself and his brother took part in.

"Parent-teacher…what?" Daryl sighed at Merle's confusion, frustration increasing. He'd never been the patient type.

"Doesn't matter. Alls I know is y'all and Patsy done been fuckin' up. Junior's supposed to be doin' homework, practicing math, some shit like that, and he ain't. His teacher's right pissed 'bout it." Not entirely true—Beth hadn't seemed particularly angry, just concerned. He'd have bet money she was the type of kid with a daddy that wanted to sit her down and talk to her about her feelings whenever she'd been in trouble.

"Did ya tell her to shut up and mind her own damn fucking business." Merle growled, leaning back against the wall his mattress was pushed up against, laying an arm over his eyes. Daryl stood back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest. Merle continued, "Don't need some wrinkled up old bitch tellin' me what to do with my kid."

"I reckon you do, Merle," Daryl countered, "Seein' as it's her job and all, to get that kid through school. I know you don't necessarily give a shit 'bout your son, but that don't mean nobody else does."

Merle tensed, "Fuck you, brother." He growled, jerking unsteadily to his feet and jabbing a finger into Daryl's chest, "Don't you come into _my_ house, accuse _me_ of not giving a shit about my boy. I _love_ that boy!"

Daryl knew he'd hit a nerve. Hell, it'd be a nerve for him too, if he had a kid and someone accused him of not giving a shit about them. He and Merle came from the same blood, came from the same home—they knew what it was like to not be cared for.

Merle may not be a perfect father, but he was surely doing the best he knew how.

"Yeah, well, your _love_ ain't gonna get him through school, your _love_ ain't gonna teach him to read or do fuckin' calculus, now is it, Merle? Unless you want that boy to be in here, jacked up on what-the-fuck-ever with you ten years from now, he's gonna need to get all that shit straight!"

Another nerve was hit, and Daryl knew it. Merle would probably never change, but that didn't mean the older Dixon was proud of what and who he was, or how he spent his time. He had never managed to shake the monkey off his back, but it didn't mean he was proud of it, and Daryl knew his brother was afraid of his son ending up like him.

Merle collapsed back onto the bed, head in his hands, rubbing his face like he wanted to tear it off, "I can't teach the boy nothin'" He muttered into his hands. Merle hadn't graduated high school either. It had been decades since either he or Daryl had set foot in a classroom.

"Yeah I figured." Daryl responded gruffly, throwing the papers on the bed beside Merle, "Said as much. The teacher," _Beth_, he thought, in an almost fond sort of way, "Says he can stay after school with a couple other kids, do his homework there. Junior says he'd like that. Think he's sweet on his teacher." Daryl grinned wolfishly, "Can't say I blame him though, she's a right dime." Merle snorted.

"And how does this 'right dime'," Merle said it as if he doubted it, "Expect us to _pay_ for all that?"

"She doesn't," Daryl indicated the papers, "Just sign that shit and it's taken care of. You ain't even gotta worry about it."

Merle stared at him darkly before reaching out for a pen.

* * *

Beth had been pleasantly surprised when the very next morning after her unusual meeting with Daryl Dixon, Junior had shown up to school, forms in hand, smiling broadly at her. She'd been even more surprised to find that the forms had been appropriately filled out—albeit whoever had done so happened to have very poor hand-writing. She was pleased with herself—there had been a problem, and she'd found a solution.

She had no doubt Junior would catch up to the other children in no time. He was a bright kid and eager to please.

In many ways, Beth enjoyed working in the after school care program more than she enjoyed her time in the classroom. With the testing standards their district pressured them to live up to, classroom instruction time was somewhat more rigidly structured than she would have liked, and certainly lacked the fun she'd hoped to bring to the classroom. The care program was wilder—more open. The room they held it in was filled with toys and books and all manner of arts and crafts. She and the other two teachers—both young like her—would take turns supervising groups of children on the playground while the others watched over those who were staying inside.

The kids weren't required to do schoolwork while they were there, but there were special treats and incentives for those that did. For this reason, the first hour or so after final dismissal usually saw the majority of the kids with their heads bent over worksheets and chapter books, eager to get their work done.

It always made Beth wish she had a little more freedom in the classroom. She felt that so much more got accomplished in the after school program than in regular instruction time, and it only half so long. She sighed, brushing her ponytail back over her shoulder and watching Junior painstakingly complete the 3's chart on his multiplication tables. It was his first day staying after, and he was already catching up quickly.

The individual attention was good for him. She wished she could give him—and all the other students—more of it in the classroom.

In her pocket, her phone vibrated. She pulled it out and, not recognizing the number, hesitated.

"Hey bud, I'm gonna answer this real quick, I'll be right back." Junior nodded at her, brow furrowed as he contemplated '4 x 5' and she stood, walking to the back of the room so her conversation wouldn't distract the students, who were being wonderfully and unusually quiet.

"Hello?" She answered, and was met with a gruff voice.

"What time does he need to be picked up?"

Beth was confused.

"Hello? I'm sorry, who is this?" There was a paused, then a sheepish voice.

"Daryl Dixon." Realization dawned on her, and she laughed softly.

"Right, sorry Mr. Dixon, didn't recognize the number. The program ends at 6:30, but the last stragglers usually leave around 7, so we'll be here until then. Will y'all need me to give him a ride home? It's no trouble truly."

"Nah, I can get him." And the line went dead. Beth didn't take it personally—Daryl didn't seem like the type of person who spoke on the phone often, or who exercised proper manners in any other part of his life. She put her phone away, feeling the littlest bit of nervous excitement at the thought of seeing him again beginning in the pit of her stomach. Once again, she blushed. It was entirely inappropriate for her to be thinking about him that way, but she couldn't really help it. She'd never had much time for dating while she'd been in school, and now that she was working twelve hour days, she didn't hardly have time to go to the market or see her sister, let alone meet single men.

Not that she knew Daryl was single. She was just assuming, though something told her it was a good assumption.

And not that she'd ever act on the way she was feeling—it was just nice to let her imagination wander a bit.

Nothing wrong with just looking, after all.

5:30 rolled around and found Beth sitting on one of the benches at the edge of the playground, hand shielding the sun from her eyes as she dutifully watched the handful of kids who were left scamper all over the jungle gym, shrieking with laughter at whatever game they were playing. Beth hadn't quite been able to keep up with the rules, but as far as she could tell at least one of them was a wizard and someone's super power had something to do with saliva because she kept spitting at the ground as she traversed the monkey bars.

Junior was playing with them, running and laughing. He'd finished all of his homework, probably for the first time in his life, and Beth was glad.

"Kids are crazy." A harsh voice came from behind her, and Beth twisted in her seat to squint at Daryl, smiling.

"You know it. How they manage to run around all day and still have energy left is beyond me. I get tired just lookin' at 'em." She agreed, "Will you be picking Junior up every day?"

"Most days," He replied, shifting uncomfortably, "Should be able to. He do alright?"

Beth patted the bench beside her and Daryl sat, albeit somewhat reluctantly. She got the feeling that she made him nervous, but not in the same way he made her nervous. He seemed on edge, as if expecting her to chastise him—for what, she wasn't sure. But he had that look about him—it was the same look as a puppy accustomed to taking the blame for things that weren't its fault. Beth smiled, leaning back.

"He did real well. We got all his homework done, and I think he really likes being around the other kids. I'm glad you were able to get those papers signed. He'd gonna catch right up, he's a smart kid." She fixed him with those warm blue eyes once again, smiling that winning smile. Daryl could definitely see why his nephew loved this teacher so much—she had a special sort of way about her that made you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered. Like what you did meant something—to the world and to her specifically.

Daryl couldn't ever remember feeling like what he did meant shit to anyone.

It was nice.

"Me too." He agreed, watching the kids. Junior hadn't noticed his arrival yet, and Daryl was glad to see the kid running around, having fun—not sitting in front of a television with his momma passed out on the couch. This was what the kid ought to be doing—having fun, playing. It was right. Daryl cleared his throat awkwardly.

"There will be, uh, some days that I ain't gonna be able to get him." He confessed, feeling low for admitting this short-coming, "Usually only once a week or so that I work during this time of day, but it happens."

He was glad that she didn't ask him why the boy's parents wouldn't be able to get him those days—he didn't quite feel like explaining to her (or anyone) what his family was like. She nodded at him.

"Well, you've got a couple of options. He can always take the bus those days. If you let me know ahead of time when they are I can make sure he remembers. Or, like I said, I'm more than happy to drive him home whenever you need me to."

Daryl felt strange, asking for that, but she was offering, so he'd accept. He nodded, making a mental note to have her drive Junior to his apartment, and not Merle's run-down house. She didn't need to see what sort of shambles the kid lived in most days—least of all because she may get it in her head to call the police.

Having spent a few years in the foster care system himself, Daryl was eager to ensure no such luck befell his nephew, especially not at the hands of someone who obviously meant well. He looked back out at the playground.

"Looks like fun." He commented, trying to recall his own childhood memories of running pointless circles and climbing every which way over a jungle gym, only to find that he had none.

"Oh it is." Beth replied, folding her arms over her stomach and smiling at him, "They'll go at it for _hours_ out here. I wish I had the time or the energy for that sort of fun."

"You work a lot?"

"All day." She sighed, yawning on cue, "School starts at nine, so I'm in at eight—which isn't too bad. I'm up with the roosters every morning regardless, since I live on my daddy's farm." She glanced at him sheepishly, as if expecting him to comment on the fact that she still lived at him. He didn't. "But since my pay grade is so low, being a new teacher and all, I do truly need the extra money that comes from working the after school program, which means I don't leave here until about eight or so. Farm's about a forty-five minute drive so, you know," Beth shrugged, "Not a whole lot of free time to be had."

Daryl nodded along. He didn't envy her schedule, except perhaps the regularity of it. He didn't work quite so many hours, but the hours he did work were erratic, and changed weekly. At least she had her weekends, he assumed. Daryl couldn't remember the last time he'd had two days off of work in a row.

"You must love 'em." He commented, "The kids." She was already nodding.

"I really, truly do." She whispered, then cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted, "Junior! Your uncle's here! Time to go home!"

Daryl grinned at his nephew as the boy galloped towards them, all smiles. Silently, he wished that he'd been able to sit on the bench just a bit longer, talking with the teacher and watching the kids run themselves ragged.

_Maybe tomorrow_, he thought, standing to grab Junior up and toss him over his shoulder, much to the boy's delight.

All the better that his antics got another one of those brilliant smiles out of Beth Greene.


	3. Chapter 3

Much love to everyone who reviewed, and for all the support. Sorry there was a bit more of a time gap before this update—it's crunch time for me as far as school goes, so I have rather a lot on my plate at the moment!

Happy Easter y'all!

* * *

It was a week before Daryl was scheduled to work a shift at the gas station that would prevent him from picking his nephew up. This time, he texted Beth to ask her to give the kid a lift. He'd never admit it to anyone, but he'd been a little apprehensive about calling, or asking her directly the day before when he picked up Junior. It wasn't so much that he feared she'd say no—he was used to being told 'no'. Daryl just knew that if she were to tell him no, she'd follow it up with a heartfelt and honest apology—and Daryl couldn't think of many things more uncomfortable for himself than the idea of having to listen to a sincere apology.

She'd fired back immediately—_Of course! :) What's his home address?_

Daryl hadn't hesitated in providing the address of his own apartment. It just wasn't worth it to risk her bringing Junior to Merle's. Since their brief confrontation the day of the parent-teacher conference, Merle had been cleaning up, but Daryl knew how that story went.

Merle would decide to get clean, get sober. There was no money to be had for a rehab facility, so he'd try and detox on his own. It wouldn't work, but Merle's usage would steadily decreased. Then Patsy would notice and, driven by guilt, follow suit. They'd both get better, stay clean for a few weeks—maybe even a few months.

And then something would happen, and one of them would use, and then the other would use, and everything would fall back to shit in the blink of an eye. They'd been doing that dance for years, ever since the first time Patsy got clean—when she was pregnant.

When the relapse hit—and it always hit—it would hit suddenly and unexpectedly.

It was bad enough that Daryl knew the kid would wind up seeing his parents strung out—sending the teacher to the house just wasn't an option.

Daryl's own apartment was a bit further out from the school, but it would be quiet and empty, and Daryl saw no reason why she would even enter the building, let along his particular apartment.

Daryl, of course, had never adjusted to the sort of mindset that a young, caring, kind-hearted woman like Beth Greene might have. He imagined she'd drop Junior off at the front of the building, watch him walk in, and then drive away. To Daryl, that seemed to be the sort of thing a concerned teacher would do—just make sure he got into the building.

What had never crossed his mind was the idea that Beth Greene would park her car, get out, and _walk Junior inside_, expecting to meet the infamous Merle and Patsy and finally introduce herself.

To Daryl, the idea that someone might care so much for someone who wasn't their blood was entirely foreign.

The day had passed slowly for Beth, more than likely because she'd felt unusually tired. It was getting to be mid-November, and the cold air had her nose running and her father up all night coughing loudly—loudly enough to keep herself and the rest of the family tossing and turning all night.

He really ought to go to the doctor, but Beth knew her father was too stubborn to trouble a medical professional over a cough.

Thus, she'd been yawning all day, drinking cup after cup of black tea in an attempt to perk up.

When 7:30 rolled around, and the other teachers busied themselves sanitizing the playrooms—one first grader had come down with norovirus, putting them all on edge as far as health was concerned—Beth was remarkably grateful to be able to pack away Junior's things and leave with the eight year old in tow under the guise of needing to get him home before his parents started to worry. The last thing she wanted was to spend the next forty-five minutes elbow-deep in bleach-water scrubbing the toys.

Junior chatted the entire drive—about twenty minutes in the same direction (Beth was pleased to discovered) she went to get back to the farm. He'd never been painfully shy before, but Beth had noticed a great surge in his eagerness to interact with other children since he'd started staying after school. He seemed to be more confident and outgoing—and like he was having more fun. She smiled, dutifully listening to his remarkably serious opinions on the newest card game he'd learned earlier that day, and felt good about the decisions she'd made.

It was nice to feel like she was doing good—it was what she'd been hoping for out of her chosen career.

"Alright bud," She pulled into the parking lot that belonged to the address she'd been given, an old manor house that had apparently been converted into several apartments looming ahead of her. Daryl had said Junior lived in 302—Beth, who had never lived in an apartment, could only assume that meant he lived on the third floor. It didn't look like there could possibly be three hundred apartments in the building she was seeing, "I'll walk you up and then I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"'Kay." Junior was already sliding out of her little 2002 Toyota Tacoma—the perfect truck for a girl like Beth. It was a small, sturdy thing. Beth had been driving it for years. She locked up and followed him, when she drew level, he reached out to grab her hand. Beth smiled widely—truly she was blessed to have the job she did.

The pair climbed the stairs together, Junior leading the way, chattering along as he did so. When they came to the door marked '302' Beth knocked lightly and waited. Nothing happened. She knocked again, a little bit louder, brow furrowing, a sick feeling of moderate anxiety beginning to twist her stomach slightly.

"Your parents are home, right?" She asked Junior, interrupting his lamentation of the school's policy against allowing students to drink soda at lunch. He shrugged.

"Prolly."

"Do you think they heard me knock?" She asked, fishing her phone out of her bag, "Do you know your home phone number?"

The look of confusion on Junior's face pushed her anxiety into full-blown panic mode.

"Is this the right building?" She asked him again, "Is this your house?"

"No." He answered, as if that should be obvious. Beth was scrolling through her phone, searching for the address Daryl had given her. It was the right address. She looked at the door—the number was right. Maybe he'd made a typo in sending her the address. Junior continued,

"This is where Uncle Daryl lives."

Beth looked up from her phone, staring down at the eight year old incredulously, suddenly faced with a multitude of questions—did Junior live here? Where _did_ his parents live? Was Daryl _really_ his uncle? Had he been kidnapped? Why had Daryl expected her to drop an eight year old off to an empty apartment at nearly 8 o'clock at night?

"Do you have a key?" Was what she eventually asked. He nodded enthusiastically and pulled his backpack off to dig through it. Sighing at the nature of eight year old children—to have let her knock twice without mentioning that he had the key—Beth pinched the bridge of her nose. Once inside the apartment, she began making phone calls.

* * *

Daryl had never been very good about his phone. It was a dinosaur, for one—there wasn't a damn thing 'smart' about it. And, being the reclusive man that he was, he rarely found need for the darn thing.

It wasn't unusual for him to leave it in the truck while he worked at the gas station.

It also wasn't unusual for him to grab it before heading into his building, and checking to see if he had any missed calls or text messages as he drug his tired body up the stairs.

As of twelve after midnight, he had three messages and five missed calls—as well as one voicemail—all from 'Teacher Beth'. His stomach dropped, immediately imagining there'd been a car accident, a school shooting, a rabid dog—_something_—and Junior was hurt, or dead, or otherwise in trouble. He dialed his voicemail, continuing to walk upstairs.

"_Hey Daryl, I don't know what's going on here, but I can't just—"_ The message had started as he'd unlocked his front door, only to be interrupted by the very real presence of the person the voice belonged to—lounging on his couch with her feet on the coffee table, the head of a sleeping boy in her lap as she stroked his hair, pale light from the television dancing across her face. She tensed visibly when the door opened, and Daryl immediately hung the phone up, feeling a familiar sense of apprehension—that he was about to be in big trouble.

For what, he wasn't entirely sure, but he got the feeling she had harsh words for him. He could see it written clearly all over her face as she turned to look at him. Although he could see a storm of something that definitely wasn't happiness written all over her face, she held a finger to her lips and gestured to Junior. Daryl closed the door behind him quietly as she eased herself up off the couch, laying the boy's head back down and pulling a blanket up over his shoulder. Delicately, she picked her way across the floor to Daryl, who noticed that she'd taken off her shoes. There was something about her wool hiking socks that endeared her to him.

She drew level with him, and despite her being on the losing end of their height difference, loomed above him in her obvious rage and frustration. A single finger prodded his chest forcefully as she leaned in and hissed:

"What. The. _Fuck_."

Daryl grabbed onto her wrist. Being touched without his consent—and in what he felt was a condescending, patronizing way at that—had never sat well with him. He liked the teacher, and didn't want her to put herself in a position where she enraged him.

"What?" He asked, also hissing quietly. She narrowed her eyes.

"What do you mean _what?_"

"I mean what the _fuck_ are you pissed about? And _why_ the fuck are you here?"

"_What?!_" Her voice raised above a whisper, and she seemed to realize that she was on the verge of shouting and so wrenched her wrist from his grip, grabbing his wrist in return and dragging him down the hall—the hallway of his _own_ apartment—to the bathroom. She pulled him inside and closed the door, turning to face him with her arms crossed over her chest, breathing heavily through her nose.

Daryl imagined what it would be like to kiss her, but decided that this moment was not the moment to find out.

"Did you _honestly_ think it was a good idea for me to drop an _eight-year old_ off at an empty apartment that, it would seem, was going to continue to be empty until, well," She looked at her watch, "Twelve-fucking-thirty in the _morning_?"

In the harsh light of the bathroom, Daryl could see dark circles under her eyes—and a wild look in her eye that told him that she wasn't only frustrated and infuriated, but exhausted as well.

"The door locks!" He insisted as defense, dragging his fingers through his hair, acutely aware of how greasy he was after a twelve-hour shift, feeling defensive and cornered—literally cornered in his own bathroom by a small, blonde girl. A feisty girl, but a girl nonetheless. She rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

"The door…locks. The door locks. The door locks." She fixed him with that stare again, with those eyes that he just could bring himself to look away from, but that he couldn't quite bear to maintain eye-contact with either, "What was he supposed to _eat_? What if got _afraid_? What if there was a _fire_? You can't leave a _child_ alone for that long at night!"

"Well what else was I supposed to do? I had work!" Daryl was definitely defensive now, holding his arms out in exasperation.

"I don't know Daryl, maybe tell me his actual home address? So I can take him to his _parents_?" She threw her hands in the air. Daryl bristled.

"I don't exactly see how any of that is any of _your_ business." He was bordering on shouting now, and he'd stepped towards Beth. To his surprise, she didn't flinch or take a step back from his obvious anger—her gaze steeled and she squared her shoulders. She was tough.

"Not my business? I am his teacher! I have a responsibility to ensure his safety, even outside of the classroom. It's my _job_." Her eyes were narrowed, her nostrils flared, her fists balled at her sides, "And it's your job too."

"It ain't." Daryl growled, stepping towards her menacingly. She backed against the sink instinctively, but tilted her chin defiantly, jaw set stubbornly, "It ain't my job, and it ain't your business neither."

"If it ain't _your _job, then just maybe you ought to have just let me take him to his _parents_." Her eyes flashed dangerously, "Since it most certainly _is_ theirs!"

Daryl felt like ripping his hair out in frustration. Instead, he menaced over her, fingers curling and uncurling, jaw clenched. Never before in his life had he laid hands on a woman, but she didn't know that—by all means she should be terrified of him in this moment, but if she was he couldn't tell. There was a levelness in her eyes and in the calm, measured breaths she was taking that was so opposite anything he was used to. Anger, rage—Daryl knew exactly how to deal with. This level-headed righteousness was foreign. And worse—it was pissing him off.

"You don't know nothing." He told her, "Nothing about me, my family—nothing." She continued to stare at him, challenging him. His scowl darkened, he shifted his weight heavily, glancing away and then back again, "Just who do you think you are, anyway?" His voice had risen and he was advancing towards her again, leaning in until their faces were nearly touching, "Just _what_ do you _want_ from me?"

"_All_ I want," Her voice was low, a drastic contrast with his own, as she stepped towards him. He stepped back, belying his own intimidation, "Is what is best for that child."

They shared a deep, frustrated exhale punctuated by a soft knocking on the bathroom door.

"Miss Beth?" The sleep-filled voice of a small child carried through, "What's happening?"

Daryl narrowed his eyes at Beth, who narrowed hers in return. Scoffing, he turned and opened the door, scooping Junior up in one arm.

"Nothing's going on, bud." He assured Junior, carrying the kid towards his own bedroom, vaguely aware of Beth padding along softly behind him, socked feet quiet on the hardwood floor, "Just havin' a little talk with Miss Beth here is all. Sorry we woke ya up."

Junior had wrapped his arms around Daryl's neck and burrowed his face in the crook, "That's okay uncle Daryl. Don't be mad."

"Ain't no one mad at you, bud." Daryl assured the child softly, rubbing a greasy hand on Junior's back. Daryl was all-too-familiar with the helplessness a child felt when adults fought.

"Promise?" Junior mumbled into his shoulder.

"Promise." Beth responded softly from the doorframe as Daryl laid his nephew down in the bed and tucked him in.

"Promise." Daryl agreed, drawing his pointer finger across his chest in an X, "Cross my heart and all of that."

Junior nodded seriously, drifting back to sleep.

* * *

All the adrenalin from their brief confrontation in the bathroom had drained from Beth the moment Daryl had opened the door for Junior. It was late at night—far past her usual bedtime—and her week was catching up with her. Her sole salvation was that it had been a Friday evening. When you lived on a farm, there was no such thing as a 'day off', but a day where she wasn't at school was the closest Beth got and she was looking forward to a relaxing Saturday at home.

Of course, her mother would find nothing relaxing about the Saturday before Thanksgiving, but that was hardly Beth's problem.

She had followed Daryl back down the hallway from his bedroom into the small, but tidy, kitchen, resolving as she did so to regain composure in their conversation. She'd never been much of one for arguing or for shouting. Since her father had stopped drinking, there'd rarely been a voice raised in the Greene household—only Maggie seemed to have retained any sort of temper, and they all loved her dearly for it but rarely responded in kind.

There was an issue at hand, and it was nothing hurling accusations at one another could solve.

"Coffee?" Daryl had been futzing with something on a countertop, his back to her.

"Please." Beth responded emphatically, punctuated with a yawn. She'd drifted off—maybe for an hour or so—while sitting on the couch with Junior, but she'd need the caffeine to drive home, "Unless you have any tea? Green tea?" She added, not feeling very optimistic about the chances of him having any such thing. She was rewarded with a scorn-filled backwards glance over the shoulder and sighed in response, "Coffee's fine."

He busied himself with a coffee-maker that looked like it had never had a proper cleaning and she leaned back against the stove, rubbing her face.

"Daryl," Beth began carefully, noting the way his neck and shoulders tensed when she addressed him. She resisted the urge to reach out and knead the knots away, as she'd done a million times for her father, her sister, brother, or mother during stressful times. "I can't leave an eight year old child in an empty house, and after tonight I can't continue to act like you're Junior's legal guardian without you giving me a good reason as to _why_ I should." She folded her arms across her stomach.

He'd finished getting the coffee started and, with nothing else to do, turned to face her, mimicking her crossed arms and sighing heavily, "It's a long story." He said finally.

"I have time." She told him. Daryl made brief eye contact before looking away again, contemplating what he was going to say, wondering whether or not he ought to confess the state of Junior's parents—that his brother and sister-in-common-law battled intermittent bouts of addiction and drug usage, creating a volatile and unstable home environment. That Junior stayed over at his apartment semi-frequently in any case, and that he himself had been afraid that if she took Junior home to a decrepit house and met a tweaked out Merle, she'd have gone directly to the police and Daryl would have never seen his nephew again.

He was still afraid that that would happen.

But he told her anyway.

Daryl told Beth calmly and succinctly what Junior's situation was—who Merle and Patsy were, and why he'd chosen to shoulder much of the responsibility when it came to the kid.

He told her, and she asked a question. And then another question. The coffee maker beeped impatiently and he poured her a mug. They sat at his small kitchen table and spoke of all manner of things until the sun rose and Beth took her leave, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as she did.

"It'll be okay." She assured him with a soft smile, her eyes tired, "You'll see. Everything will work out."

Daryl nodded without looking at her. It was easy for her to think that way, he could tell. She was used to everything turning out alright.

For people like him, it was far more likely that everything would turn to shit instead.


End file.
